Cold Iron
by gythia
Summary: Eowyn and Arwen discuss human misconceptions about elves.


Cold Iron

standard disclaimer: This is a fanfic. Characters: ain't mine. World:  
ain't mine neither. Mistakes: mine, all mine.

"Eala Earendel engla beorhtast,

Ofer middangeard monnum sended."

The bard of Rohan ended his harpensway to applause, and one of the  
minstrels of Gondor rose to begin his recitation. This contest was  
likely to go on for several days, and had already lasted well past  
the noon hour, so Eowyn decided it was not at all impolite to rise  
and drift away from the poetry competition at the pinched end of the  
courtyard, and toward the refreshment tent pitched just shy of the  
Fountain and the Tree.

Eowyn smiled a little, nostalgic smile when she saw a bowl of  
mushrooms among the offerings at the buffet table. They reminded her  
of Merry. She wondered how he was doing, back in his home country.  
Right now she felt she could probably give him a good run in an  
eating contest, as long as it was held in the afternoon.

She saw Arwen, resplendent in elven court finery of blue velvet,  
waving away the hovering servants. Eowyn accepted some of the same  
yellow wine from a proferred tray, and struck up a conversation with  
the Queen. "They say elves have quite the appetite for poetry."

"They are right, in that case," Arwen replied. "Yet those of the  
competition's entries which deal with elves can grow so tiresome in  
their wrongheadedness."

"Oh? How so?" asked Eowyn.

Arwen reached over to the table and picked up a tiny pickle fork and  
speared a gerkhin. "Already this morning I have heard three verses  
that claim I should not be able to do this without burning myself."

"What? Oh-- touch steel?" Eowyn also snagged a pickle. And then  
another. And another.

Arwen sighed. "It is my own fault, I suppose."

"What is this tale?" Eowyn asked, looking tickled. She munched on  
some cheese cubes.

"When I was a young elf maid, I composed a very bad linnod. It was  
one of my first, I was only a few hundred years old. It was about  
Luthien, actually. Looking back now, it sends a shiver up my spine to  
think I was fascinated by her in my youth. I wonder-- but I digress.  
I recited this poem for some visitors in Imladris, Men of some kind.  
Emissaries from the court of Elendur, of Arnor, I think."

Arwen blushed. "Among the things they say about elves is that we  
never forget anything, but I cannot remember how my own poem went  
now. Except that there was a line in it about elven immortality. I  
had but recently heard the story of how my uncle Elros chose his  
mortal lineage, long ago, and became the first King of Numenor, and I  
was still puzzling out the idea for myself. It is most shuddersome to  
think of now, after... In any case, I spoke of the various things  
that cannot fell an elf: "not plagues of rats nor the weary wearing  
of old bone tired bones", I think was the line. Dreadful. And then it  
went, "but cold iron and love alone." By which I meant we can die in  
battle, or go like Luthien out of the circles of the world from a  
choice of the heart. But the Men who heard me took the line  
literally, I'm afraid. That odd notion has been repeated so many  
times that Men now apparently think it is true. I want to go back in  
time and strangle myself every time I hear about cold iron being  
fatal to elven-kin. And I am quite sure I shall hear it more than  
thrice before the bardic competition is over." Arwen smiled ruefully.

Eowyn shook her head. "Think of it as wily propaganda, if that would  
cheer you, my Queen. Imagine how surprised some credulous highway  
robber may someday be when he threatens an elven warrior with a  
butter knife."

Arwen laughed. "You are a delight, Eowyn. Always the shieldmaiden,  
even now that you are the Princess of Ithilien."

"Shield-matron perhaps," Eowyn offered, moving on to the melon  
squares.

Arwen snickered. Hardly anyone ever made a risque joke around her,  
even such a mild one. It was quite refreshing. "And how is the little  
prince or princess coming along?"

"Not so little, now. I feel like a cow in a horse race. Thank  
goodness for that talented dressmaker you sent to me! At least I do  
not look like one."

"Never." 

Eowyn grazed on some little meat pastry things. "If I keep this up, I  
will. Or perhaps I shall turn into a hobbit."

"In that case I shall have to send a talented cobbler, to hide the  
evidence." The two women shared a smile. Then Arwen cocked her  
head. "Ah! I hear the strains of Farewell to the Blue Mountains.  
Falmahal is playing. This I want to hear. Join me?"

"Certainly."

They made their way back to the contest grounds and ruthlessly  
evicted two young gentlemen from a pair of front row seats. Arwen  
noticed the chair she had chosen was wrought iron, and touched  
Eowyn's arm to get her attention. She pointed down with a mischievous  
grin and stroked a hand along the twisted black metal, and winked.  
Eowyn winked back. They settled in to hear the music.

The End.


End file.
